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My own discipline, social work, emerged in part out of the social gospel movement of the early 1900s. One of the great minds of that movement, the Baptist preacher Walter Rauschenbusch, once gave the conference sermon at a gathering of social workers. “Social work, the kind that deals with the causes of misery, is today almost the only form of Christian work that involves the risk of persecution,” he said.

He offered this not to counsel social workers away from such work, but to urge them toward it. That has always been the call of the prophet: To speak the truth. To call it what it is.

Too many white Americans would rather not listen to the call to repentance from our brothers and sisters at Standing Rock. We would rather not confront America’s original sins of genocide and chattel slavery. We would rather not think about the black bodies broken at the hands of the state in the name of justice, the failure of that same system to return verdicts, and the mass incarceration of people of color and the poor.

As in Isaiah 30:9-10:

We are a rebellious people,

faithless children,

children who will not hear

the instruction of the Lord;

who say to the seers, “Do not see”;

and to the prophets, “Do not prophesy to us what is right;

speak to us smooth things,

prophesy illusions.”

So, tell us that we will Make America Great Again. Do not remind us that for many, a return to some imagined point in the past is a return to oppression and violence. Pay no attention to the thick cloud at the top of the mountain, the thunder and lightning (Exodus 19:16). Look at this golden calf, this gold-plated skyscraper. Ask with scorn, as Pilate did, “What is truth?” Do not concern yourself with an answer. Give the people what they want.

December 05, 2016

I have a story to tell. I struggle with telling it, not wanting to become yet another loud voice screaming into an echo chamber of ideas. But it needs to be told and if you will listen I hope it will be a story of restoration and freedom to you.

I am a stay at home mom of 4 boys. My husband and I have been married for 12 years. We have fought long and hard for a marriage that means something. He is my greatest gift.

A little over three years ago my body began to fall apart. I had to have 3 surgeries—one of them a disk replacement in my neck. I developed chronic migraines and the suffering that came was relentless. It didn’t gently stretch but rather ripped apart the fabric of my soul. It didn’t make it a little bigger to carry a bit more virtue. No, it decimated it, leaving in its place a black hole that swallowed all that my soul knew to be true. One year ago this September I looked at my husband and said, "I don't believe in God anymore. I don't know how I can. He has abandoned me in my darkest hours. I cannot believe a loving God would ‘cause this for His glory,’ because if he did, he has a self-esteem problem and I don't want to be a part of it."

This was the message I had inherited growing up: God caused suffering so we could show others how steadfast in our faith we were and then people would respond, "Wow! That's amazing! God is so good!" WHAT??!? I abandoned my post as a Christian and as devastating as the break up was, I didn't know how to stay in that place of belief anymore.

This suffering left only questions—questions of self, the Divine, and purpose. Questions if left unanswered leave my soul empty, without hope, permitting my soul to transmit its pain to others (cf. Richard Rohr) and causing a trail of wreckage in its wake.

Only suffering can break that which the soul never intended to give up.

"you are all children of light and children of the day; we are not of the night or of darkness." (1 Thess 5:5)

Of course, Indigo Girls fan that I am, I immediately started singing this song in my head:

"My place is of the sun and this place is of the darkand I do not feel the romance, I do not catch the spark.By grace, my sight is growing strongerand I will not be a pawnfor the Prince of Darkness any longer."

When I was part of the charismatic movement in college, I obsessed over this topic in a literalistic sense. Once I left behind the conservative theology I formerly held, this is one of the things I stopped thinking about.

In recent years, I have been returning to the language of my tradition with a new set of eyes. This has come as I have re-engaged with traditional liturgy, mostly through the Book of Common Prayer and the Rule of St. Benedict.

The funny thing, especially for one who identifies as a theological “liberal”, is that the transformation process is a two-way street. Yes, I am a bit revisionist in the way that I engage with the language of my tradition. I read a lot of Marcus Borg and use catchphrases like, “I take the Bible seriously, but not literally.”

My worldview shapes the way I interact with the liturgy. But the opposite is also true: The liturgy also shapes ME and the way I interact with my worldview.

December 04, 2016

A little over a year ago, I reviewed Brad Jersak’s A More Christlike God: A More Beautiful Gospel. In so many ways, it was exactly what I had been needing. While folks like Greg Boyd and Brian Zahnd had introduced me to the idea of a God who looks like Jesus, it was Brad Jersak who helped me put all the pieces together into a full and rich theology, one soundly rooted in both scripture and church tradition (particularly the Eastern Orthodox tradition).

I have since then recommended his book to more people than I can count. I consider it to be among the most important and desperately needed works of our day. If you haven’t read it yet, I cannot urge you strongly enough to do so now.

Yet an important gap remained to be filled. A More Christlike God provides the perfect remedy for those of us raised with a toxic version of Christianity, now rethinking our beliefs. But what of our children? How do we communicate the truths of the beautiful gospel to our kids, without inadvertently carrying over the toxic baggage of our upbringing? We want to start them off with the picture of God we wish we’d had all along.

To this end, I could not be happier to tell you about Brad’s new children’s book, Jesus Showed Us!As the title implies, it’s all about how Jesus shows us what God is like. Paired with 16 iconic illustrations by Shari-Anne Vis, the book walks through the life of Jesus to teach children (and adults) about our perfectly Christlike God.

We are often informed, in the liturgical year, that Advent (from the Latin) means coming. We then ask ourselves, rightly so, whose coming? The stock answer is that Christ has come (this is what Christmas is about), and Christ will come again. These answers seem to end the conversation and catechism for the Advent-Christmas-Epiphany season. But, is there more that might be asked and answered? What does all this mean for us between the Christ who came, and the Christ who will come again?

Advent in the west, at least, takes place at a time of year when the light and sun is lessening. Darkness is ever present, and the night season encroaches on soil and soul. It is not as easy to bask in the long days of summer and the warmth of day star. It is much easier to take to the hills and delight in the human journey when fair weather and the light of the day stretches on much longer.

But, what happens when darkness and hard things come our way? What happens when the days in our lives lack the warmth and brightness of summer and the blue canopy seems cold and icy? How do we live the Divine life when darkness seems to dominate the day and light ever recedes?

Mary, the mother of Jesus, was asked a hard question by the angel Gabriel. Would she be willing to allow the Divine life to grow within her, and would she be willing to give birth to and nourish the young child Jesus? Needless to say, a Yes meant many a hardship and much pain. Mary was not naïve. She knew in the marrow of her bones and the depth of her heart what such a Yes might mean. She knew the pain and tragedy that could follow when a Yes was said. There is no doubt that it would have been much easier to say No.

Mary, to here credit, had the courage to say Yes to such an invitation. She allowed Jesus the Christ to grow within the womb of her body and soul. She felt the kicking, the interior growth, the actual life of Christ in her. She was often slighted and misunderstood, treated indifferently and marginalized for her Yes. She and Joseph were on the run from the Roman empire for many years. Mary was neither sentimental nor weak willed. She knew the hard price for saying Yes.

Mary is to be revered by the church as an icon for welcoming the Divine invitation. There was much letting go and many deaths Mary had to die for Christ to be born, grow in wisdom and mature. Advent, therefore, raises a simple question for us. What does it mean for Christ to be born, nourished and nurtured in the womb of our souls and bodies? What does such a birthing and coming look like in the steps we take each day on our human journey? The answers to such questions are not easy in an age in which many trot out a domesticated, sanitized and tamed faith.

Advent takes place at a time of year when dusk, night and dawn dominate much of the day. How do we say Yes to the birth and coming of Christ in such a season? It is much easier, of course, to have a form of Christianity that ignores hardship, suffering and pain. Such religious triumphalism is foreign to the deeper message of the faith journey and the meaning of Advent.

Mary is the Queen of Heaven for the simple reason that she had the courage to say Yes to God in a dark and hard season when night pressed in on her and her people. The saints and mystics of the church know, in the sinews and ligaments of their souls, that the deepest coming of Christ only takes place through dark nights and clouds of uncertainty and unknowing. Mary knew this, she opened herself to such hard places, and she clarified for us what the coming of Christ truly means for us in this Advent season.

November 25, 2016

The following are my takeaways from advice I received from my psychologist friend, Floris Kersloot.

The topic was on how to understand and respond as peace-builders when faced with angry reactions over theological (or political) convictions.

Even when (and especially when) sharing something so basic and central to Christianity as "God is love" or "Jesus calls us away from violence into cruciform enemy love," we often see people of faith and good will triggered into what seems like inexplicable anger and defensiveness. For theological perspectives to cause angry reactions rather than lively discussions should seem strange. What 'code' might we find that unlocks the closed door of reactivity and opens the door to authentic dialogue?

Normally, emotional reactions ask for an alternative emotional response. For example, fear asks for assurance, grief asks for comfort. What does anger ask for? Understanding. This can be very difficult to offer when someone is freaking out at you. But it is growing edge of those who would be peacemakers. Not to answer reactions with reactions, but with 'the other cheek' of understanding. How so?

We ask (ourselves or the other), "Where is the anger is coming from?" It's not simple disagreement. Something is happening at the heart level ... there's a backstory of some sort. Usually the anger arises from some deeper need or longing or fear.

From there, we might explore the possibility that we share a common longing or concern, even with someone on the opposite end of the theological (or political) spectrum. [We ought also critique and transcend the spectrum itself]. For example, the shared longing between me and my wackiest (;-) friends might be our hatred of injustice and our desire to see the world set right. On that level, we might communicate this common ground by sharing stories that energize these longings and emotions. The exchange of understanding at that point defuses the anger. Our heart has been heard.

Perhaps then the real debate can begin. For example, we may still disagree on HOW injustice can be (has been) addressed and what it takes to heal the world. We may still disagree on how it will happen, but by understanding that we agree that it should, the discussion may move from heat to light if we are willing (some are not if the real issue is ego-centric -- 'I need to be right').

Some of my friends (still friends and not angry) continue to differ because we operate on different assumptions. These too can be shared. For example, our perspectives are so often informed by assumptions about how we read the Bible. In such cases, we ought to say, "we have such different ways of approaching and interpreting this text," rather than "you are unfaithful" or "unbiblical." When I accuse someone of 'literalism' and am accused of 'liberalism,' neither of us feel understood and anger lurks. But if we understand that neither of us intends to throw the text under the bus, maybe we'll stay cool enough to actually look at it together. Then maybe we'll avoid the presumption of those who wanted to prematurely separate the wheat and tares (Matthew 23:24-30), heeding instead the advice of the Master that says we're not wise enough for such us/them discernment. Better that we grow together until the harvest.

We can also share how we'd like to be understood. For example, I would like to be understood this way: my perspective begins at the cross as a revelation of the nature of God as self-giving, radically forgiving, co-suffering love and the power of the resurrection to overcome evil with good. And these are to be transposed into the life of daily discipleship through the transforming grace of the Holy Spirit.

By taking the permission to share this, I must also be willing to give that same permission. "How do you like to be understood." You can see then that this is not merely about sharing information, but actually co-ministering understanding to our longings and desires, fears and wounds (before anger pre-sabotages communication). Here's a basic test: am I moving toward love or moving away from it? Am I deconstructing an idea, or am I tearing down a person? Am I building my ego by winning an argument, or building a relationship by listening as carefully as I'm telling?

Blessed are the peace-builders; they will be called sons and daughters of God.